


The Alpha Wears Prada

by SLCKat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Devil Wears Prada - Freeform, F/F, F/M, I blame freezepopsandoom for this, M/M, Oh god, What the absolute fuck am I doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:46:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLCKat/pseuds/SLCKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Stiles Stilinski wanted to do was get a good crime beat at a great paper in New York City. This is so far from what he wanted that he was pretty sure there were hidden cameras somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alpha Wears Prada

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freezepopsandoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezepopsandoom/gifts).



> I don't even know you guys. This is all freezepopsandoom's fault. He sent me a text one day that just said "THE ALPHA WEARS PRADA" and it all went downhill from there. Also, big thanks to him for being my Beta! :) Also, I may have borrowed the "Danny-does-yoga" bit from gyzym's fic "I Flatly Refuse To Call This 'The Bend And Snap'" because I ship Danny/fancy cheeses like nobody's business and that was kind of a deciding factor in the casting on this.

Stiles had been out of college exactly one month when he began to wonder if the degree from the prestigious Scripp School of Journalism - Ohio University, of course - was worth the paper it was printed on. He had done what every enterprising young writer had done in the history of forever: packed his bags and moved to New York City with an orderly stack of clippings and a degree, hoping to land a coveted place at one of the city's award-winning news outlets.

He had applied everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Even the beatnik little papers that printed out of people's basements in The Village. And not a single call back.

Stiles was beginning to understand what that song in Avenue Q was talking about. His B.A. was pretty damn worthless.

At least he had Danny. Danny was effortlessly hot and was raking in money running yoga classes for neurotic, over-worked Broadway wannabees in someone's attic in Tribeca. Having a yoga-instructing boyfriend had about a million and one amazingly flexible benefits, and sharing an apartment with him (and, yes, his best friend Scott and the love of Scott's life, Allison) was pretty much the best thing ever. But it was beginning to be very difficult to ask his dad to help him with the rent, especially since being Sheriff in B.F. Nowhere didn't pay all that much. He needed a damn job.

So, in a panic, Stiles applied everywhere. And really, he meant everywhere. Places he'd never even heard of, to write about God-knows-what (he was pretty sure at least a few of the places were fronts for drugs, but a job was a job at this point.)

And then it happened. The call back. The one and only call back.

Which is why he was standing in the middle of a crosswalk on 7th Avenue staring up at a skyscraper like an idiot. A chorus of car horns and angry yelling brought him back to the present, and he readjusted his grip on the worn leather briefcase he'd stolen from his dad when he went off to college and made his way through the throngs of (admittedly better dressed than he) people to the revolving door that would either take him to glory or ridiculous, crash-and-burn failure.

Hale Industries was a publishing house, he knew, but he didn't really know that much about the job he was being called about. The harsh-voiced woman in HR who told him he'd been granted an interview wasn't very forthcoming with information and, as a poor post-grad, he didn't have the money to pay for Internet access or even a cup of joe to access the free wireless in a café. Which was pathetic as shit.

He managed to get up to the proper floor of the building without incident, managing not to ogle all of the ridiculously well-dressed employees around him (okay, mostly.)

The most bored-looking secretary he'd ever seen in his life barely looked up when he walked into the reception area to which he'd been directed.

"Can I help you?" she asked, filing one of her manicured-to-death nails.

"Hi. Um. Stiles Stilinski. I had an appointment with--" Stiles dug into the pocket of his tweed coat, searching for the name he'd been given over the phone. "Jackson Whittemore?"

"Stilinski?" came a voice from his left and he turned to see probably the best-dressed man in a douchescarf he'd ever seen in his life standing in front of a glass door that led to the depths of the office. He looked decidedly unimpressed. Or maybe that's how all the people in New York City looked? Maybe Stiles would take a survey when he was sure he wasn't going to have to move back in with his father on the other side of the country.

"Yes?" Stiles replied with the smoothness of a country back road, wiping his palm on his best trousers (bargain bin at Men's Wearhouse). "Mr. Whittemore?"

"Call me Jackson," replied the vision of model-y-ness. "And since Stiles is a stupid name, I'm calling you Stilinski whether you like it or not, so deal with it. Come with me."

"Um. Right." This could be worse, he supposed. At least this appeared to be a legitimate business. Not a bit of cocaine in sight (but then, he hadn't been in the bathrooms yet, so the jury was still out.)

"Walk quickly, I only have so much time in my day set aside for this," Jackson said, turning a sharp corner with a whirl of douchebag scarf and a turn of suit jacket that probably cost more than his dad's entire department budget.

“Right,” Stiles replied, scurrying (in a most manly fashion, thank you) after Jackson, though he probably could have followed him by scent alone. He wasn't sure what cologne Jackson had marinated in this morning, but he knew that, if he got this job, it was probably going to become like the after-smell when someone worked in a taco joint. He was forever going to smell like douchebag cologne. Dammit.

“Here's the deal, Stilinski,” Jackson snapped, opening another glass door and ushering him into a space taken up by two mirror-image desks and yet another glass door leading into a huge, brightly-lit office. “I was the junior assistant to Peter, but the first assistant got promoted and moved into a different office, so now I'm the first assistant.”

“So you're replacing yourself?” Stiles asked, trying not to gawk at the sleek surroundings.

“Attempting to. Most everyone I've seen has been a fuckwit, and Peter won't deal with fuckwits,” Jackson huffed.

“Who's Peter?”

Jackson whipped around, almost dislodging a small lamp with his douchebag scarf. “Did you really just ask that? Who the fuck comes to a job interview at Hale Industries without knowing anything about Peter Hale? Did no one ever teach you to be prepa--”

Before Jackson could go into full-tilt diva rant, he snatched a buzzing phone out of the pocket of his perfectly-creased pants and stared at the screen, ridiculous eyebrows investigating his hairline.

“Well, shit. He's here. He isn't supposed to be here for at least another hour.” Jackson looked up from his phone and leveled a glare at Stiles. “You. Sit there--” he pointed to the right-hand desk-- “and don't make a sound. Don't look around, don't touch anything, just don't. Wait for me to come back for you.”

With that edict laid down, he dialed a number and put his phone to his ear, turning his back to Stiles. “Yeah. He's coming back. Yes, early. No, I don't know why. Hurry up.”

“Peter isn't supposed to be back yet!” said a voice from the doorway.

Stiles knew he had been told not to look around, but... He looked up and saw the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She had long, red (strawberry blonde, his mind corrected) hair and was impeccably made up, just like everyone else in this place. And she looked furious.

“Its not like I can control his every movement, Lydia, Christ,” Jackson snapped at the woman. “Is everything ready for the run through?”

“Of course, it was ready twenty minutes ago, Jackson, what do you think. They're bringing everything up now. Who's that?” the girl asked when Stiles stumbled into the chair, making a horrific amount of noise.

“I can't even start on that right now, Lydia, you'll have to get back to me,” Jackson replied, shuffling papers and pulling a stack of magazines out of God-knows-where.

Stiles watched with interest as Jackson scurried into the well-lit office (which was completely walled in windows on two sides, Stiles could now see) and laid the magazines down in what appeared to be a very precise order and exactly at right-angles to the edges of the desk. And what the hell was with the tumbler of whatever-the-fuck on his desk? Did people just bust out the liquor at nine a.m. in New York City? Was it even booze? Curiouser and curiouser. 

Stiles was so engrossed in watching Jackson run around like a mad chicken that he jumped when the door to the room banged against the wall as it was flung open.

“Whittemore, what happened this morning? Why was my appointment cancelled? Don't tell me it was some idiotic reason like the masseusse's grandmother died or something, because that was the last incompetent asshole you sent me to, and there's no way it could happen twice,” said a smooth voice.

“No, sir, of course not, sir,” Jackson replied, his sharpness turned simpering as he hurried to grab a huge wool overcoat and briefcase from the man who had just walked in. 

This must be Peter. Stiles tried hard not to stare as the man rattled off a veritable laundry list of to-dos and complaints without hardly taking a breath. Stiles couldn't help but be impressed at the sheer amount of words coming out of the man's mouth, and found himself staring...

And was caught by a pair of ridiculously amazing blue-grey eyes as Peter Hale turned to see who the other body in his office space belonged to.

“Whittemore, what is that?” he snapped, turning on his heel and entering his office, Jackson trailing behind him.

“I was just pre-interviewing someone for the junior assistant position, but apparently the HR department forgot to take their meds today, because he's hopeless. I was just showing him out,” Jackson replied.

Stiles tried hard not to feel stung by this critique of his person, as he'd only exchanged a few words with Jackson and how the hell did he know he was hopeless anyway?

He was just drawing in breath to talk when Peter spoke.

“Whittemore, the last few junior assistants you've interviewed, and hired, might I add, have been incurable morons. Obviously, your judgement in these matters cannot be trusted and I'll have to take the valuable time out of my day to do your job myself. Send him in,” Peter said, sitting down in his ergonomic chair and picking up one of the oh-so-carefully-laid-out magazines on his desk, flipping through it idly.

Jackson's mouth snapped shut with an audible noise, and he spun on his heel, glaring at Stiles. “You heard the man, get in there,” he growled in an undertone, snatching Stiles's briefcase as he stood. “Leave that; it's hideous.”

Stiles made a noise of protest, but walked into Peter's office, trying not to audibly gulp out of sheer nerves. 

“Mr. Hale? My name is Stiles Stilinski, and--”

“What the hell is a Stiles?” Peter interrupted, glancing up from his magazine, one elegant eyebrow raised.

“Um... I am?” Stiles replied, confused as all hell. What the fuck kind of workplace WAS this?

“And why are you here, Stiles?” Peter asked, flipping a page.

“Well, I graduated from Ohio University and moved to New York to be a journalist, but no one is hiring, so I started applying anywhere that had an editorial department and I finally got a call back from the HR department here at Hale Industries and they set up an interview with Jackson and here I am,” he said in a nervous rush.

“And what makes you think you're the right person for this position?”

Stiles was beginning to get annoyed. Peter still hadn't made any kind of show of interest or even an indication that he was paying attention. “Well, I think I could do a good job here at Hale--”

“What magazine do I run, Stiles?” Peter asked, putting down the magazine finally and leveling a gaze that screamed “JUDGING YOU” at Stiles.

“Um.” It was all he could do not to shuffle his feet like a schoolboy.

“You have no idea, do you?”

“No?” replied Stiles. What was the right answer, here?

“And you obviously have no interest in fashion whatsoever,” Peter continued.

“What? Fashion? I mean, I kind of--”

“No, that wasn't a question.”

Okay, really? What? Now he was kind of pissed off.

“Okay. Yeah. I'm not Mr. Fabulous. My clothes are not top-tier. In fact, they probably only just make the middle rung, and that's if they stretch a lot. But I'm smart, I was good enough to get into and graduate from Ohio University, and I learn quickly. All I'm asking for is a chance to be---”

But Peter had already turned around and was dialing a number into the phone on his desk, ignoring Stiles completely.

Stiles huffed. “You know what? Thanks for your time, Mr. Hale.”

He turned on his heel and stalked out, snatching his briefcase from a shocked-looking Jackson on his way past. He fumed all the way down the hall, through several sets of glass doors, and into the elevator, his anger sustaining him until he turned in his security pass at the front desk in the lobby. Then he realized what he had done and it took everything he had not to walk over to one of the polished granite walls and bang his head repeatedly on it until he bled.

He almost made it to the door when he heard someone call his name.

“Stilinski!”

He turned to see Jackson looking at him with a very unimpressed face. When he met his eyes, Jackson waved him back over and threw his hands up in frustration.

“I don't even know what he's doing, but whatever. You have to come fill out a fuckload of paperwork and you start tomorrow,” Jackson said, leading him back into the elevators.

“Seriously?” Stiles was almost too surprised to even squeak out the question.

Jackson leveled a rather impressive glare at him. “Don't fuck it up.”


End file.
